


I Like Batman

by DarcyDelaney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Mentions of John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Secret Santa, Wee!chesters, teen!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyDelaney/pseuds/DarcyDelaney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got enough on his plate, what with doing his damnedest to make sure that Sam has the best Christmas possible; the last thing he needs is to figure out a Secret Santa gift for another kid in Sam's class on top of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like Batman

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for spn_passenger for the SPN J2 secret santa exchange! I tried to include a couple of your likes; I really hope that it works for you and that you have a wonderful holiday! <3

In and out.

That’s how easy it’ll be--or at least, how easy it  _ should  _ be, if Dean plays his cards right. He’s done this enough, but each and every time he enters a big department store with no money in his pocket, he wonders if he’ll break his streak, if this’ll be the day that somebody catches him again. If it’ll be just like the incident three years ago back in Des Moines, if the store manager will corner him in the housewares section as he tries desperately to hide the stuffed turtle he had grabbed for Sammy. If his dad’ll get called again instead of the cops, if Dean will earn himself another bruised rib for his efforts to give his little brother a good goddamn Christmas for once.

Dean shakes his head sharply as he walks across the parking lot toward the entrance. Can’t think like that. 

Festive music blares through the speakers, serenading the people who are trying desperately to finish up their Christmas shopping, and Dean weaves easily in between them, inconspicuous as ever. He keeps his head down, only glancing up every so often to make sure he’s not running into anyone, and finally allows himself a quick sigh of relief when he reaches the small section of books in the back corner of the store.

His plan is to get Sam a book to round out his small selection of Christmas presents for this year; he’s already got a pack of colored pencils, a coloring book, a small stuffed dog, and a bag of chocolates for his brother hidden under his bed, and the book will be the icing on the cake. 

Dean walks slowly, trailing his fingers gingerly across the first row of colorful spines. He’s not exactly sure what he’s looking for, instead opting to wait until he sees a title that jumps out at him. Sometimes he looks at the colors, too--Sam’s the bookworm, but Dean likes the way some of the colors can blend together into something eye-catching. Bobby had told him once that was the reason he liked comic books so much, to see all the colors blend together into one 23-page piece of art.

A slim book with a dark purple and lime green spine grabs Dean’s attention, and he pulls it off the shelf. _Goosebumps_. He studies the cover for a few seconds, but shakes his head once he starts reading the summary on the back; he’s trying to find a Christmas present for Sammy, not scare the shit out of him. Hell, this stuff is supposed to be fiction, but Dean knows for a fact that the werewolf that’s terrorizing the kids in the book really does exist; their dad had killed one just last week.

Yeah, there’s no way in hell Sam’s getting  _ that _ . He’s got enough scary shit in his life as it is.

Dean slides the book back onto the shelf and resumes his search, which is when he notices  _ The Chocolate War _ . The title sounds good--sue him, he likes chocolate--and when he grabs it to flip through and read the summary, he notices a couple of other things to put in the plus column.

It’s a small book, a mass-market paperback, so it’d be easier for him to sneak out than a regular-sized book. Dean nods to himself as he turns it over in his hands, scanning the summary printed on the back and then flipping the book back over to its front. It’s got a medal on the cover, too; medals are good. This is good. Sam’ll like it.

At least, Dean hopes he will.

After he quickly rifles through the pages once again to make sure there aren’t any rogue security tags stuck inside, Dean glances around discreetly before tucking the book into his jacket. He takes his time making his way to the front of the store, careful to keep his body casual, his shoulders relaxed, face blank. It had taken him a while to perfect the feigned casual look that shoplifting required, but Dean is pretty sure he’s got it down now.

He thought he had it down in Des Moines, too, but that’s beside the point.

He’s just passing by the women’s outerwear section, getting closer and closer to the exit, when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and his stomach crunches itself up like a piece of discarded notebook paper.

“Young man,” a stern voice behind him says, and Dean has to force himself to stay still and not just make a break for it. If he tries to run now, it’ll just make a scene and he’ll be more likely to get caught. 

_ Stay cool, Dean.  _

He takes a deep breath and turns around to face an elderly woman looking at him expectantly. Her face is creased with wrinkles, her mouth set in a serious line, but her eyes are warm and friendly, and for a second, Dean is unsure of how to react. Before he can say anything, though, she holds out her free hand. Something about her almost makes Dean take the book out of his jacket and give it to her, apologizing profusely while also trying to plead his case, but then he notices that she’s holding something out to him.

A key. His motel room key.

“You dropped this,” she says.

“I, uh, thank you,” Dean falters, taking the key from her and trying to hide the way his cheeks go pink with embarrassment. As he moves, her eyes focus in on his jacket, and he looks up at her, his eyes wide, wondering if he’s being that obvious, if she can tell that he’s hiding something.

She gives him a small, knowing nod. “We’ve all been there,” she says, and Dean furrows his brow, trying to figure out if she’s referring to the key, or something different. “Try to be more careful,” she continues. “Merry Christmas, young man.”

Dean stares after her for a few seconds as she walks away toward housewares, then quickly pockets the motel room key and adjusts the book to be more flush against his side before resuming his exit.

He holds his breath all the way to the parking lot, until his feet hit pavement and no alarms sound after him.

 

 

Dean can hear the TV blaring as he approaches the door to their motel room. Room 304 at the Lone Star Motel has been home for the past couple of weeks, and Sam had wasted no time in treating it as such; Dean’s had to tell him at least five times to turn down the volume on the damn thing before their neighbors complained and got them thrown out.

He digs through his pockets for the motel key, grabbing it and jamming it into the lock with a sigh.

“Sammy,” he says, not bothering to look up as he toes off his shoes and shifts his coat a little to ensure that the book stays hidden. “I could hear the TV outside, dude. Turn it down a little, huh?”

Dean can hear the worn couch creak in protest under his little brother’s weight as he shifts and grabs for the remote. The volume on whatever Christmas special Sam’s watching starts to get softer, and Dean nods absently to himself as he heads over to the bed and quickly slips the book under the mattress, to be wrapped later.

“Sorry,” Sam says softly, and his voice makes Dean stop in his tracks. It’s sad, a little bit defeated, almost, and Dean spends almost all of his waking moments making sure that Sam doesn’t feel sad  _ or  _ defeated, so he shakes off his jacket and makes a beeline for the couch. 

“Hey, what’s up?” He shoves at Sam’s shoulder softly before sitting down next to him, careful to avoid the mysterious stain on one of the cushions--it could be coffee, but it could also be something else altogether, and Dean doesn’t want to take any chances. 

Sam doesn’t even try to shove him back, and that’s when Dean feels his stomach drop a little bit more. “Sam.”

“It’s stupid,” Sam says, folding his scrawny arms across his chest and staring determinedly at the TV. Even from the side, Dean can tell that he’s blinking hard, and he nudges Sam again.

“No, it’s not. Come on.” Dean looks expectantly at his little brother, but when he still doesn’t offer any more information, he gets to his feet with a sigh. “Y’know what, fine.” With an exaggerated sigh, he gets to his feet and stands in front of the TV screen. Sam opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Dean crouches down so he’s eye-to-eye with him. “You gonna tell me what the hell’s got you so prissy?”

Sam stares at Dean, unamused. Just as Dean starts to wonder if he’ll have to force it out of him, Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of scrap paper.

“Here,” he says, holding it out.

Dean hesitates before taking the slip of paper and unfolding it. Written in a hasty scrawl across the pale blue lines is  _ Peter Hamilton _ .

“Peter Hamilton,” Dean reads, looking up at Sam for some kind of explanation. “Who the hell is that?”

“He’s in my class,” Sam says, still making a pointed effort to avoid Dean’s gaze.

Dean nods, trying not to let his frustration show any more than it already has. “And you have his name on a piece of paper because…?”

“I have to buy him a Christmas present. For secret Santa.”

_ Ah, shit. _

Without saying a word, Dean walks over to the couch and drops back down onto it again, holding the slip of paper loosely in his hand. They’ve never been around long enough for either of them to have to bring in some stupid gift for some stupid exchange, and Dean is at a complete loss for how to handle it. He’s vaguely aware of Sam turning toward him, his eyes wide and insistent as he explains that everyone in the class is doing it, that he doesn’t know what to do but he can’t just not bring anything in. 

His eyes wander around the motel room, which has been decorated to at least resemble something like holiday cheer: there’s a small artificial tree set up next to the TV, decorated with strings of soda can tabs and paper snowflakes he and Sam had made after school one day. Sam had made some paper chains out of the comics section of the newspaper, and they were hanging delicately from the ceiling. It looked nice, nicer than some of their past Christmases, but Dean doubts that Peter goddamn Hamilton would appreciate some homemade snowflakes as a secret Santa gift.

“When do you need it by?” he finally manages to ask, turning to face Sam.

Sam’s cheeks go red, and Dean swallows as he feels his heart plummet further into his chest. “Tomorrow,” his little brother says meekly, and Dean closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his close-cut hair. 

“Tomorrow,” he repeats faintly, and Sam nods.

“I...Ms. Hirsch told us about it last week, but--” he wrings his hands together “--I knew we wouldn’t be able to get him anything, and I was trying to think of something on my own, but…”

“‘s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, trying as hard as he can to make his voice sound confident and reassuring. “We’ll figure something out; we always do, right?”

Sam’s face brightens--not much, but it does, Dean’s sure of it--and he nods. 

“Good. Now go, uh, go take a shower or something, and I’ll get some food ready.”

Sam gets to his feet quickly, grateful to be given something to do, and looks at Dean once more before heading to the bathroom. “Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam.” Dean’s voice comes out in a monotone.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean straightens up at that, and he shakes his head. “Listen, Sammy, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, understand? We’ll find something to get what’s-his-face, and it’ll be the best damn present that kid’s ever seen. I promise.”

Sam’s smile is a little more confident now, and he rummages behind his pillow on the bed to get his pajamas before heading into the bathroom to shower. Dean waits until he hears the water start up before burying his head in his hands, wondering how the hell he’s going to pull this off.

 

 

By midnight, Sam’s asleep, and Dean’s sprawled out on the couch, no closer to figuring out a Christmas present to get this kid. There’s no way in hell Peter Hamilton is getting any of Sammy’s gifts, that’s for damn sure. Dad left them with barely enough money to cover food; there’s no way Dean can scrounge up enough for a gift, especially this late. Dean had briefly considered trying to grab something from the 24-hour CVS a few blocks away, but quickly dismissed the idea--he’s not risking getting the cops called on him again just to please some kid he’s never met.

“Shit,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his hair and staring absently at the bed that he and Sam share when Dad is around, where Sam is currently curled up under the covers, snoozing contentedly with the knowledge that his big brother will handle this. There’s no way Dean’s letting his little brother go into school without a gift, leaving him to become the kid everyone else talks about in hushed voices, spreading rumors and making fun of him at every turn. It’s Dean’s job to protect Sam, and he’s not letting that happen. No fucking way.

He’s about to head to the kitchen to get some water when it hits him like a punch to the stomach. Instead of heading to the sink, he creeps over to the side of the bed and grabs his backpack, carrying it to the couch. The zipper sounds thunderous in the silence as he opens the bag, then hesitantly slides out four different comic books. He spreads them out on the coffee table in front of the couch and stares at them, resting his chin in his hands.

_ Batman. _ Bobby had snuck the comics to Dean years ago, back when he was ten or eleven. The books quickly became Dean’s prized possessions, and they still are at sixteen. When things get bad, he’s quick to open any one of the books and lose himself in the story, the colors, the art. Sometimes he feels like he and his dad and all the other hunters out there are like Batman, protecting the world from evil they might not even know exists.

He doesn’t know how many times he’s read them, how much his fingerprints have smudged the inks from turning pages and pointing out different panels to Sam, but Dean’s taken pride in them, and gone to great lengths to keep them as intact and well cared for as possible. 

_ Kids like Batman,  _ he thinks, tracing his finger over the bright yellow lettering on the cover of one comic. He can feel a lump growing in his throat as he studies all the covers, and then thinks,  _ I like Batman. _ He’s read each issue enough times to practically have them memorized, but just having them nearby makes him feel...comfortable. They give him a sense of security and home, no matter how small. But he doesn't know how long they'll be in this stupid town; he doesn't want Sam to be made fun of for the rest of their time here.

Dean takes a deep breath and heads to the kitchen to find a leftover piece of the newspaper to wrap the comics in.

 

 

Dean keeps the memory of Sam’s face, flush with delight and relief at waking up to find a present wrapped and ready to go for Peter Hamilton, in his head as he and Sam leave for school the next day. He keeps it in his head on Christmas Eve night as he wraps Sam’s presents. He keeps it in his head when he wakes up to Sam shaking his arm determinedly on Christmas morning, trying to wake him up at the crack of dawn. 

They sit on the couch still dressed in their pajamas, a meager pile of gifts sitting on the table in front of Sam. Dean sits cross-legged and watches as Sam considers the gifts in front of him. He doesn’t pick any of them, opting instead to pull out a badly wrapped box and toss it to Dean.

“Open this one first,” he says as Dean jumps in surprise when the box hits him in the chest.

“Sammy, what--”

“Open it.”

“Sam,” Dean says, his voice more stern this time, “how many times have I told you, you don’t get me pre--”

“Dean, just open it, come on!”

Dean glares at his little brother, trying to hide the swell of excitement in his stomach at the idea of a gift for himself. He edges his finger under the wrapping paper--actual wrapping paper, not comics or newsprint--and tears off a few pieces until he’s got the entire thing unwrapped.

He stares at Sam, then down at the  _ Star Wars  _ LEGO set in his hands. It’s a smaller one, only a hundred or so pieces, but Dean knows how much these go for; he’s had to stop himself from trying to get one for Sam for years now. 

“Sam, how did you--”

“Do you like it?”

“I…” Dean looks down at the box in his hands, then nods. “It’s awesome, Sammy. But how did you…” HIs voice trails off as he starts putting two-and-two together. They don’t have the money to buy something like this, so there’s only one thing that could have happened. “Sam, did you steal this?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “No!” he yelps. He looks at Dean, apparently choosing his words carefully. “Peter loved his present,” he says softly. “He said it was the best one anyone in the class got.” He pauses. “Why’d you give him those?”

Dean looks away and shrugs. “Wasn’t gonna let you go to a secret Santa without a present,” he says, forcing out a light laugh.

Sam considers this. “Well, I tried to get them back,” he says, “but Peter wouldn’t trade them for what I got, so I gave what I got to you.” His eyes get a little nervous at that, and he hesitantly asks, “Do you like it?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, then looks down at the LEGO set with a newfound sense of appreciation. “Yeah,” he says, looking up at Sam with a grin. “I love it, Sam. I love it. Thank you.” He sets the box down on the coffee table before enveloping Sam in a hug, then pulls away and gestures toward the remaining presents. “C’mon, open those up so then we can start putting together the Death Star.”

Dean grabs the LEGO set again and turns it over and over in his hands as he watches Sam unwrap the first gift. When Sam excitedly flips over  _ The Chocolate War  _ so he can read the summary printed on the back, Dean grins.  _ Thanks, Sammy,  _ he thinks to himself as he glances down at the box.  _ Merry Christmas. _


End file.
